


The Couple's Waltz

by Deductions_of_a_Psychopath



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anniversary, Ballroom Dancing, Dancing, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Music, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson - Freeform, Sherlock has a sneaky plan, proposal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-15
Updated: 2012-11-16
Packaged: 2017-11-18 16:58:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/563316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deductions_of_a_Psychopath/pseuds/Deductions_of_a_Psychopath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock isn't usually one for celebration of something so sentimental as an anniversary, but December 14, his anniversary with John, is the exception to that rule. There will be another chapter, maybe more, and the rating will change if I decide to go further than another chapter or two that I have in mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Finished. Two glasses of burgundy on the satin-covered table, candles placed methodically around the room in various locations, the curtains drawn, and a gentle waltz playing in the background of 221B set the atmosphere to the pinpoint exact way Sherlock had envisioned it. Sherlock wasn’t one for sentimental things, especially things so trivial and unnecessary as anniversaries, but he had put more thought into this than he would like to admit to anyone. December fourteenth: London was snow-covered and glistening as flakes continued to swirl down from the pearly grey clouds that seemed far too dismal a colour for the silencing effect the blanket of snow had on everything. Reaching into his pocket, Sherlock pulled out his mobile and typed out a short message to John, ready to set his plan in motion.

_When will you be home?-SH_

He didn’t bother replacing the mobile into his pocket, knowing it would alert him with a response soon enough. No sooner had he walked across the room and seated himself in his usual chair did the device vibrate.

_Around 6, unless we get more patients suddenly. Been a bit of a slow day, though.-JW_

No, that wouldn’t work.

_Sooner. Four o’clock would be ideal, if at all possible.-SH_

This time he did put his phone back into his pocket. John would no doubt take a while to respond; he would probably be up and about asking if he could transfer shifts with someone just for tonight. ‘It’s a special occasion, I’ve got plans,’ he’d say, though he wasn’t the one with definite plans. Not that he knew of, at least. Sherlock had begun composing a soothing melody in his head when his pocket buzzed and the screen of his mobile shone brightly at him.

_Got Sarah to take a few of my patients. I’ll be home by 4. See you then.-JW_

With a smile, Sherlock pushed himself off the sofa and glanced at the time. Half two, he had ample time to shower, dress, and double-check his already-reviewed work.

****  
After a relaxing shower, Sherlock had dressed himself in one of his nicer suits with a royal blue shirt underneath and adjusted his sleek and slightly damp curls to a more appealing style. He relit a candle that had gone out accidentally as he did a once-over of the flat, checking his pockets and straightening his jacket as he looked at the clock in the kitchen. Almost four, John would be home soon. Sherlock decided to occupy the remaining time by playing and continuing his previous composition, closing his eyes as he was struck by a muse, letting images of John, the Christmas decorations, the snow, and even his own emotions come through onto the paper where he dictated the melody. He was writing the last phrase of the piece when he heard door downstairs open and close and footsteps begin to ascend the staircase. His intention for dressing in the suit was to hopefully convince John that he had made reservations somewhere, which he had, but not until eight. That would give him plenty of time and a cushion in case anything diverged from his master plan. The last note of the composition reverberated beautifully as John opened the door and stepped in, as if on cue.

“That was nice, is that recent?” John asked as he closed the door and shrugged off his coat, hanging it up as he bent to untie his shoes.

Sherlock smiled faintly and turned around, replacing his violin in its case and leaning it against the mantle, straightening his jacket once more.

“It is, yes. Just finished it.” He answered, stepping closer to John. “What do you think?”  
The question was intentionally vague, knowing that John would wonder whether he was talking about the music or the extra decorations he had made to the flat in addition to the Christmas décor that John and Mrs. Hudson had insisted upon. Bloody Christmas hat on his skull….

“It’s lovely. The flat, I mean. And the tune, of course, that was beautiful. You’ll have to play all of it for me sometime.” John replied casually with a sigh at the end. He looked up at Sherlock, locking their gazes momentarily before pulling the man closer to him until their bodies pressed together in an embrace. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s shorter frame, reveling in the way their bodies fit together like puzzle pieces, as they always did.

“It was nice of Sarah to accept your work for you because of our plans,” he said quietly, pressing his lips just above John’s ear. “I would hate for them to be interrupted. I’ve put quite a bit of thought into this, and there’s something I want to teach you,” he finally admitted, pulling away from John to look into his eyes again, though he was met with an expression of slight confusion.

“You want to teach me something?” the doctor asked, keeping his arms around Sherlock’s waist as he looked up at the detective.

With another gentle smile, Sherlock responded, “You don’t know how to dance.”

John’s chuckle echoed around the flat, the warm sound mingling with the slow waltz that was providing background noise. “I’ve never needed to learn how, really. Never one for school dances, galas, things like that.”

Sherlock shrugged and stepped back, clasping John’s hand loosely and pulling him forward a few steps so they were in the middle of the floor, which had been cleared for this purpose. “I’ll be leading, obviously,” Sherlock commented, adjusting his hands so one rested lightly on John’s waist and the other was held out with the doctor’s resting in it. “Your right hand goes on my left shoulder. Like that, yes.” At the questioning look on John’s face that Sherlock caught in his peripheral vision, he amended the end of his sentence. “I have my reasons for teaching you this, really. It’s not just on a whim. I’m helping you.”

 

The height difference could have been comical had Sherlock not been focused on the task at hand: Teach John how to dance successfully. Or at least give him a basis of knowledge.

“You played clarinet in school,” Sherlock started again, “You obviously have some musical aptitude. Close your eyes and listen to the music. Feel the rhythm, let the melody flow through you.” Sherlock instructed, doing the same. Their feet remained stationary but Sherlock began to sway their bodies to and fro in time with the music, just enough to put some movement to the agogic accents that presented themselves in the music. “Your left foot will move first, mirroring what my right foot does.”  
Sherlock slowly moved his right foot forward in one step, letting John step back to parallel the movement before Sherlock moved his other foot, waiting for John to do the same and not worrying about having the steps be in time with the melody yet. Once they had repeated the simple pattern a few times and ended up close to their original spot, Sherlock breathed out gently and began the swaying again to keep them engaged in the ebb and flow of the music. “Very good, can we try it in time?” he inquired calmly, and received a small nod from John. Counting off, Sherlock grinned as their feet moved in synchronization for a few steps before pressure hit his toes and John swore quietly.

“Shit, sorry, I went the wrong way,” John corrected. Sherlock felt the man’s muscles tense slightly beneath his hands and closed his eyes again, keeping himself relaxed in the hopes of doing the same for John.

“It’s fine, let’s try again. One, two, three, one, two, three…” they began moving again, but John had lost his internal rhythm and seemed stiff as he focused on the steps, in contrast to Sherlock’s fluid and graceful movements. The detective stilled their bodies before John got frustrated and looked down at the man. “Just try and relax, you’re doing wonderfully,” he encouraged, waiting for John to inhale and exhale before swaying once more, then counting and stepping off. John was still a bit tense at first, but eased up as they glided around the floor, keeping the tempo and falling into an elegant pattern until the music ended. Sherlock’s whole body was buzzing, feeling energized but still calm despite the fact. He beamed as John looked at him, their bodies still leaning together slowly as the music continued in their minds, though it had ended in reality. “Congratulations,” Sherlock whispered, “that was spectacular for a first lesson. I have no doubt you could handle a waltz without embarrassing yourself now.” He assured, taking a deep breath in as he planned where to go from here.

With a chuckle, John accepted the praise and smiled back, relaxing and dropping his arm, but keeping his hand in Sherlock’s. “So, what exactly was the point in teaching me how to do that?” he asked, unsure of what to expect.

Pausing just long enough to take a deep breath, Sherlock slipped his free hand into his pocket and felt a sense of calmness wash over him, though his heart had begun to beat faster in a natural response to adrenalin. He moved slowly to one knee, keeping one hand in John’s as he pulled the small velvet box from his pocket and presented it, letting his eyes travel up to John’s, whose were fixed directly on the ring.

“You don’t honestly think I would ask you to marry me without first making sure you knew how to dance, do you?”

John was so transfixed and overwhelmed by the ring and the situation that he hardly registered Sherlock’s words, trying his hardest not to let his mouth fall open in surprise as he tried to process what was happening. Of course, of course, that’s why Sherlock wanted him home early. They had reservations for dinner at eight, John had overheard the detective talking to Lestrade a few days prior, but it didn’t strike him as strange until now as to why he had wanted John to be home four hours before their reservation. Sherlock wouldn’t be one to make a spectacle of proposing, not even in a small crowd. It was a specialty of some sort, though not always a good one. In this case, however, John appreciated the fact that Sherlock had prefaced this intimate moment with something to calm him, which was no doubt part of his master plan, along with simply teaching John how to dance. Realizing he still hadn’t said anything, John fumbled for words in his brain, searching desperately to make an organized sentence before speaking.

“You would worry about dancing in this situation,” he laughed, wishing the slight prickle of tears behind his eyes would wait.

“I’m anything but traditional most of the time, as I'm sure you are aware, and I care for you far too much to let you go any longer without knowing how to dance properly,” Sherlock responded. “Though this is something that I thought I should keep traditional, though I’m not doing a very good job, am I?” he took a deep breath and looked directly into John’s eyes as he spoke, knowing that John was aware he was saying more than just the words he was speaking. “John Watson, will you marry me?” His hand holding the ring box was trembling slightly in anticipation, though he knew John wouldn’t notice. Not now.

Sherlock was almost alarmed as John sank down to his knees slowly in front of him so they were eye to eye before the doctor spoke. “You’re doing a wonderful job. Perfect, even. I can’t think of a better way to do this,” he assured, squeezing Sherlock’s hand gently. “Of course I’ll marry you, you bloody idiot,” he sighed in relief, leaning in and wrapping both his arms around Sherlock, pulling him closer as he buried his face into the detective’s neck. “How could I say no? I love you far too much to even think of doing that.”

Unable to lessen the broad smile on his face, John leaned back and placed his hand on the back of Sherlock's neck, pulling him closer and kissing him slowly. Sherlock used his empty hand to find John’s, slipping the ring onto his finger without looking and without breaking the kiss. Sherlock moved his hand to cup the side of John's face and felt a hint of warmth on his fingertips that confused him momentarily before he realized that John was crying, though barely. He had never seen John cry before, not up close. Using his thumb, he brushed away the trace of tears and leaned back, losing himself completely in the expression he was met with by his soldier, who looked back at him with the same emotion written on his face.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Big time lapse from the last chapter which took place on December 14; this chapter is now on June 17. John Watson becomes convinced that tuxedos are the bane of his existence. Surely there are no cold feet....no, definitely not. After all, the expression is ridiculous, anyway.

The entirety of Scotland Yard had applauded with broad smiles on their faces the next time John and Sherlock were called in. Mycroft had known of the proposal before Sherlock confirmed that it had happened, and of course Greg had known as well from his discussion with Sherlock a few days before the proposal, when Sherlock had sworn him to secrecy. After much prodding from Sherlock, surprisingly, a date had been set for the wedding. June 24th at Kew Gardens. John had finally allowed Sherlock to assume full responsibility for planning the honeymoon, deciding that he wanted to be surprised and after all, Sherlock did have more connections than John could begin to count.

***  
 _June 17_

Mussing his hair so it swept into softer curls, Sherlock buttoned his shirt as John entered the room, obviously looking for his misplaced shoes.

“Underneath the pillow to the left of the door,” Sherlock stated, not bothering to wait for John to ask where his shoes were.

“Why is there a pillow next to the door at all?” John asked back as he tucked the offending object under his arm and carried his shoes back to the sofa with him before sitting down and putting them on.

“Better question; why are your shoes under it? You wore them just a few hours ago when you went out to the shop. I suppose I may have accidentally relocated the pillow to on top of your shoes while you were in the shower. I don’t remember.” He spoke easily, shrugging off the comment to show his disinterest in something as dull as a mysteriously placed pillow. Once he was satisfied with his shirt and hair, Sherlock grabbed the small black shoulder bag by the door and pulled open the zipper, speaking as he did so. “You’re sure you’ve included _everything_ you need in here? Shoes, socks, undershirt, anything else?” the detective quizzed for the third time, noticing as John rolled his eyes.

“Yes, Sherlock, I’m sure. I haven’t touched it since you asked me five minutes ago,” John said as he stepped in front of Sherlock, opening the door for both of them.

***  
“I don’t understand why we’re both going to the same place at the same time to be fitted for the same occasion, but you’re not allowing us to see each other,” John asked quietly once they were seated in the back of the cab on their way to their tuxedo fittings. “Knowing you, I thought you’d be worried about clashing colours or the wrong shade of black or something,” he teased, grinning as Sherlock looked out the window.

“I’ve informed the tailors to converse and alert us if something is glaringly heinous or mismatched with our choices.” He responded. “I doubt it will be an issue.”

***  
Once they arrived, John was swept away to the opposite side of the department, being thrust into a monochrome collection of coats and trousers; the only colours being bursts of silky cummerbunds and neckpieces. The associates took measurements and hurried away, returning with multitudes of options, holding them up for John to examine and make a decision on which to try. He hadn't thought previously of even what colour he wanted, so he picked the first one he saw. Starting with a white coat and trousers, he quickly decided that was far in the wrong direction and looked darker, going to grey, then charcoal, then eventually solid black. After what seemed like an eternity, he settled for a clean-cut, one-button coat and white button-down, a sleek black silk vest and bowtie, and dug his old tux shoes out of his bag, putting them on before stepping in front of the mirror. It was exactly what he had envisioned, and he couldn't remember a time he had enjoyed looking at himself more. He never really enjoyed looking in a mirror. Something was missing, though. John couldn’t help but think the entire ensemble was a bit bland, and that simply wouldn’t do with the threat of being out-dramatized by Sherlock who was generally eccentric, to say the least. Yes, the detective had stuck to tradition when it came to the wedding thus far, but John had a nagging suspicion that it wouldn’t last. Looking around at the wall of colors behind him, John picked up an army-green pocket silk and tucked it into his breast pocket before straightening out the coat and squaring his shoulders, evaluating himself.

***

Sherlock, for once, was less of a challenge than John. He had gone in knowing his exact measurements, what he liked, what he didn’t, and all-around knowing exactly what he wanted. Not wanting to stray too far from his usual adornments, he selected a precisely tailored black tailcoat with sharp-angled lapels, mimicking his so fondly worn Belstaff Millford. He couldn’t be anything less than dramatic, especially not for this occasion. After the associates brought his requested pieces, he shooed them away and locked himself in a dressing room, refusing all help and offers. Along with the tailcoat he wore a crisp white shirt, a glossy pewter silk vest and bow tie, and a matching silver pocket silk square. He walked out of the dressing room to the three-sided mirror and heard the soft gasp from one of the younger female associates, most likely working the register. He smirked and fixed the collar on his shirt, turning and smiling as the coattails flew out behind him and the young girl stared, mouth agape.

***  
John was ready to get the hell away from all formal clothes and crisp linen by the time nearly an hour and a half had passed, but Sherlock seemed infuriatingly calm when they finally met up again in the front of the store. Grabbing the doctor’s hand, Sherlock gave an uncharacteristic nod and a considerate smile to the salespeople who smiled back sweetly at the gesture between the two men as the pair walked out. The frustration was almost tangibly radiating from John from the whole ordeal before he had finally found something he was content with, so Sherlock turned the man toward him and placed his hands on John’s shoulders, kneading them lightly. “You found something, that’s all that matters,” he said gently, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he looked down at John. “If you’re happy with it, then you should be content. I have no doubt it looks fantastic.” He paused for a moment and then amended, "Though I did say it would be helpful if you would have let me do your measurements in advance."

John rolled his eyes and shoved Sherlock lightly, though not enough to make the detective remove his hands from John's tense shoulders. "Last time I was fitted for a tux was when I was twelve and it was hell then, too. It's rather hard to find coat sleeves short enough for my arms, which is goddamn frustrating after the fifth one!" John exclaimed, his exasperation evident in the huff that accompanied his words. "I can't just go in and have the most well-fitted clothing appear on my body like you always seem to," he sighed.

“I had thought about it previously. I knew what I wanted.”

“You always know what you want.”

“And it works out, doesn’t it?”

John sighed and relaxed his shoulders, making it easier for Sherlock to work at the small knots. “I suppose so.”

With a smile, Sherlock dropped his hands and began walking to the end of the street in search of a cab, finally hailing one and sliding into the blessedly air conditioned vehicle. It didn’t take more than thirty seconds for Sherlock to recognize the uncharacteristic tenseness and silence of his fiancé, so he turned toward the man who was looking out his window. “Everything alright?”

Being pulled from the depth of his thoughts, John blinked a few times and turned toward the crystal blue eyes that seemed to be staring straight through him. “Of course. Just thinking, is all.” His palms were both facing down on his knees, his fingers flexing loosely in a way that made him look anxious, embodying the tinge of unease that ran through him. It had been ages since John Watson was nervous. No, nervous wasn’t the right word. Anxious? Excited was closer, but he couldn’t help the prickling doubt that tapped in the back of his brain, whispering near-incomprehensible things at the worst times.

Sherlock was quiet for a few more moments as he watched John search for words, seeming to be organizing thoughts in his mind. “Cold feet.” It was a brief statement, not a question, and it earned an eyebrow twitch from John.

“I do _not_  have cold feet.” He said resolutely.

Sherlock turned to him. “You’re right. Too soon to be ‘cold’, the wedding’s still a week off. Perhaps the expression for now would more appropriately be ‘slightly less-than-normal-temperature feet’.” he said, discreetly resting a hand on top of John’s. "The origin of the expression is widely unknown, though there is speculation that it refers to German soldier's frostbitten feet that prevented them from going into battle, eventually morphing into the metaphorical reluctance to make a commitment such as marriage. It was also coined in an American book by  Stephen Crane in eighteen ninety three, yet it could also reference the fact that in times of anxiety when a fear response is triggered and the body uses blood in optimal ways, the feet lower in temperature due to their distance from the heart," he said, speaking just to fill the moment. Lestrade had used the phrase a few days prior and Sherlock had researched it, thorougly confused as to why the DI would think the temperature of his feet was affected by the thought of a wedding. “It’s normal to have last-minute doubts. Though I will admit that I have pushed all this planning and arranging purely for this reason.” he finally said, returning back to the true conversation.

  
John cocked his head in response. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that despite the façade that I’m completely calm and collected, the only reason for my ease is that I’ve moved everything forward with this planning to make certain I haven’t had down time to let everything sink in. We’re getting married in a week, John.” The fact in his own words hit him as he spoke; finally letting them soak into his mind. “I will no longer hide the fact that I’m nervous.” He watched John’s expression changed and wound his fingers into the doctor’s before continuing. “But I’m not nervous about marrying you, I have no hesitancy toward that. I’m nervous for myself. That I won’t be good enough, that I’ll do something wrong, that you’ll change your mind if I make a selfish mistake.” The confession was enough to make a flicker of tenseness go through his belly, though John seemed more shocked than he was. Rather abruptly, John smiled.

“Self-confidence. Of all people on this planet, I thought you would be the last to be told that they need self-confidence.” John breathed, trying to decide what to feel. “You have nothing to be worried about. I’m fine, you’re fine, and nothing you could do could ever make me change my mind. Not on this, not ever.”

Slipping an arm around the man’s shoulders, they rode in silence back to Baker Street, both becoming lost in thought of how slowly the next seven days were sure to pass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm planning for the wedding to be in the next chapter obviously, though I'll admit I haven't the slightest clue what to write. No. Idea. At. All. Then again, I haven't had an idea for this entire thing, but I suppose it's going well? Actually, I lied a moment ago. I _do_ have something to put in there. From the first chapter.
> 
>  
> 
> Update (1/6/14): Sorry that I completely dropped this fic for over a year...but I've just been through and rewritten a few parts and I found a file on my computer where I had written most of chapter three (and I have no recollection of writing it), so I may end up posting a new chapter soon!

**Author's Note:**

> I've wanted to write a proposal/marriage for a while now, but I could never find the right inspiration. To be honest, I haven't even read over these four and a half pages I just typed in a word doc, I'm just posting them. I will be writing the marriage soon, though I'm not sure if I will do a significant time lapse and put it in the next chapter or add some filler, but either way, it is coming. Also, I got inspiration for a use of Sherlock's composition later in the story while I was writing this, but that will be revealed later. Thanks for reading, and feel free to stick around and see what happens, and how far I go with this (because even I don't know!). Leave a comment if you're so inclined (please....feel free to be inclined! <3)


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